by Jane Feather
Cosimo lit the lantern in the galley and looked around the immaculate space. “Sausage,” he said, reaching up for the salami on its hook.
“Bread,” Meg said, opening the cupboard where Silas kept it. She took out a loaf of barley bread. “Knives . . . Oh, yes, they’re here.”
Cosimo watched her with mingled amusement and amazement. Meg seemed totally at home in Silas’s galley. Biggins was the only other person he knew to be welcome there. Silas as a rule guarded his empire with fierce scowls and monosyllabic mutterings.
“Cheese . . . could you reach it, Cosimo? I’m not tall enough.” She pointed upwards at the wheel of cheddar on a high shelf.
“With pleasure.” He lifted it down.
“You’ll find wine in that casket over by the washing tub.” Meg pointed an authoritative finger. “Glasses in that cupboard . . .”
“You seem remarkably familiar with Silas’s galley,” Cosimo observed, following instruction.
“I’ve been on this ship for close to two weeks,” she informed him. “I don’t expect to be waited on, so when I want something, I get it.”
He chuckled, opening the tap on the casket and filling two glasses with wine. “Now, that’s surprising. I would have expected Miss Barratt to be totally accustomed to being waited upon.”
She sliced into the loaf of bread with a decisive cut. “Not by sailors with far more important work to do. Besides, I enjoyed getting to know them. Biggins is almost a friend, so long as I keep a respectful distance, of course.” She smiled and sliced salami with the same brisk efficiency. “Will that do, mon capitaine?” She turned and curtsied deeply.
“You are an abominable woman,” Cosimo declared, seizing her under the arms and hauling her upwards. “You make mock of everything.”
“Not quite,” Meg said, tilting her head back, offering her mouth. “Not quite everything.”
He cupped her head against his linked hands. His eyes held hers. “Are you absolutely certain that this is what you want? Answer me straight, Meg. Think about what it means. Really think about it before you answer me, because I will not ask you again.”
Her eyes were as serious as his as she said, “I could begin to be insulted, Cosimo, by this reiteration. I have said this is what I want. I have considered it carefully. The fact that I can make light of it at this moment takes nothing away from my conviction or my commitment. I will partner you. Now let’s eat and discuss what else we have to do. I still don’t know who I’m supposed to be as I gallop along beside you and speak Scots-French, tossing my red head to good effect—”
His mouth stopped the rest of her peroration and Meg yielded without a murmur. The carving knife that she’d forgotten she still held fell to the deck with a dull clang.
Cosimo stepped back, picked up the knife, and wiped it carefully on a rag before putting it back in the rack where it belonged. Meg was aware of the delicacy with which he handled it, the way his fingers held the hilt. It was a simple kitchen knife, although certainly sharp. She would have wiped it across the rag and thrust it into the rack without a second’s thought. But Cosimo treated it with an almost loving caution.
Chapter 17
Let’s go through this again,” Cosimo said, pacing the cabin, hands clasped behind his back.
Meg rolled her eyes. “Must we?” she said wearily.
“Yes,” he said flatly. “You have to be word perfect in every detail. Now, your name?”
“Anatole Giverny,” she said with a sigh. “Or Nathalie Giverny, a widow, depending on what I’m wearing.”
“And who are you traveling with?”
“My French cousin, Cosimo Giverny, who is escorting me to my family in Venice. My mother has lived in Venice for five years, ever since the death of my father. She recently married a wealthy Venetian merchant, but fell ill several months ago and they sent for me. It seems that her life hangs by a thread.”
“Good,” he said with a brisk nod. “Now, how will you conduct yourself on this journey?”
Meg thought if she had to go through this drill one more time, she would scream. For the last two days Cosimo had made her recite the catechism until she heard it in her sleep. She said now, “Cosimo, I can do this in my sleep. The words go round and round in my head all night.”
“Good,” he said again. “That’s what I want to hear. Now, please . . .”
“I am very shy and retiring,” she said, giving up. “As befits a recently widowed woman. I will leave you to do all the talking unless I’m asked a direct question. I will go nowhere on my own and will keep to my chamber with the door locked whenever we are staying in an inn. If anyone asks intrusive questions, I will refer them to you.” She threw up her hands suddenly. “Dear God, I’m going to act like a half-wit, stay immured in a tavern bedchamber . . . I can’t imagine a more tedious journey.”
His mouth hardened and his eyes took on that arctic glint. “You agreed to abide by my rules, Meg. I intend us both to reach Toulon in one piece, and I know better than you how to make that happen. Do you accept that?”
She sighed again. “Yes, I accept it. But I had hoped we might find some amusement in the journey. Otherwise why am I coming?”
He shook his head. “I understand this is hard, but believe me it’s necessary.” His expression softened. “And believe me, love, I intend that we shall have plenty of opportunity for amusement.” He drew her towards him, tipping her chin with his forefinger. “Trust me.”
His eyes were warm again, his mouth curved in the sensuous smile that never failed to arouse her. She could certainly trust him to do that, Meg thought, as his mouth brushed hers in a light butterfly kiss. And she thought she could trust him to keep her safe. What more did she need?
The fact that he gave her nothing of himself but what she saw and felt on the surface was something she’d accepted. Indeed, she preferred not to dig beneath that surface. What she didn’t know, she needn’t worry about. Cowardly perhaps, but he’d promised her an adventure, a journey filled with excitement and passion, and that was what she’d signed on for. The tedious aspects were all in the preparation, and whatever he was, whatever he did in this war—and Meg was convinced that acting as a courier was an insignificant aspect of his business—Cosimo did well and he could keep the details to himself. She wanted one last passionate, dangerous fling before life closed in upon her again. She could certainly trust him to give her that. It was a partnership where each understood exactly what they were getting out of it.
And she would believe that with every ounce of will.
She parted her lips beneath the insistent pressure of his mouth and allowed her body to melt against him as his hands reached behind her, cupping her buttocks, pressing her against his loins. There were worse reasons than this for embarking upon something as insane as a journey across France in the middle of a war in the company of an English spy.
Two days later Meg stood on the deck of the Mary Rose and watched as a trunk was lowered into a sailboat, a craft she had not seen used before. It was quite a bit larger than the rowboat and had a small housing which would provide some shelter.
Cosimo was giving his final orders to his lieutenants, to Mike, and to the boatswain. The ship would continue to the Mediterranean and would anchor in the lee of the Îles d’Hyères just off Toulon. She would wait there until her captain and Meg rejoined her.
Meg wondered vaguely how she and Cosimo were to get to these îles to rendezvous with the Mary Rose. But she assumed the privateer had a plan. He would doubtless find a boat to ferry them across.
It was a moonless night, a night Cosimo had been waiting for. He had held the Mary Rose just at the mouth of the Gironde, which flowed to Bordeaux and then became the Garonne, which wound its way across France. He and Meg would follow its course as far as possible by this little sailing boat, hoping to get as far as Toulouse by water. From there they would strike out by land across the mountainous region of Tarn towards Vaucluse. There they would drop down through the mountains to Toul
on. At least, that was the planned route Cosimo had outlined for her. She assumed it would be subject to change as and when necessary.
“Ready?”
She wheeled round at his voice behind her. “Yes . . . yes, of course.” She managed to control the quaver in her voice, but not the fluttering in her belly, as if an entire nest of baby snakes had taken up residence there.
Cosimo wondered, now that the moment had arrived, if she would stay on board the Mary Rose if he gave her the option. But he’d told her the last time he’d given her that option it would indeed be the last time. He wasn’t going to go back on that now unless she asked him point-blank. And he was fairly certain she would not.
“Everything’s on board,” he said, sounding cheerfully matter-of-fact as always. “We’ll get as close to Bordeaux as we can tonight, and lie up somewhere quiet during the day. We’ll need to slip past Bordeaux under cover of darkness tomorrow night. I’m hoping for another moonless night.” He stepped back a little. “Let me look at you.”
Meg pulled her cap down over her eyebrows and struck a stance, hands on hips, chin lifted, head at a jaunty angle.
Cosimo gave an appreciative grin. “A fine young man you do make, if I say so myself.”
Meg grimaced a little. Part of the rigorous training of the last couple of days had involved learning a masculine way to do everything, from sitting in a chair to cutting meat. It had never occurred to her that there were differences between the sexes in such elementary acts. But now she noticed them all the time. Much as she’d disliked the intensity of the education, she couldn’t help but recognize and appreciate Cosimo’s thoroughness. It gave her much-needed confidence.
She subjected him to a similar scrutiny and couldn’t help her own appreciative smile. He was dressed like a fisherman in worsted britches, a loose-fitting shirt, a bandanna tied carelessly at his throat, sabots on his feet, and a cap set at a rakish angle over one eyebrow. Everything was slightly grubby, just as her own britches and shirt were. A little seedy, a little run-down, the clothes of a working man. And nothing about his appearance lessened his magnetic attraction one iota.
She glanced down at the sailboat, where the trunk was being stowed in the stern and covered with a tarpaulin. It contained another wardrobe, her gowns, shawl, petticoats, slippers, and several rather elegant suits of clothes for Cosimo that had appeared from somewhere. She was certain they hadn’t been kept in the cabin. It would be interesting to see him dressed formally, she thought. On board ship he was always tidy, but his dress was invariably plain britches, shirt, and jerkin.
“I’m going down now,” Cosimo said. “Follow me as soon as I’m in the boat.” He gave her one long searching look, waiting for an instant, then when she said nothing he gave an infinitesimal nod and swung over the rail and onto the ladder.
Meg wondered if he’d been silently giving her the opportunity to change her mind. He’d said he wouldn’t ask her again, and she hadn’t expected him to. But for as long as her feet remained firmly on the deck of the Mary Rose, she could still back out. Without further reflection she climbed over the rail and onto the ladder.
“Good luck, Miss Barratt.” The cousins hung over the railing and she could see the envy in their eyes as they gazed down at her.
“You too,” she said, taking one hand off the ladder to wave. “Look after Gus.” Then she climbed down into the sailboat.
Cosimo was hauling up the mainsail, whistling softly between his teeth. It was dark down there on the water, the night air soft. Meg looked up at the deck of the Mary Rose and saw men lined up in silence, staring down at the little bobbing craft. Hands were lifted in a farewell that was part salute, part wave, and she smiled, although they probably couldn’t see her expression in the dark from such a height.
The sail flapped idly until Cosimo sat down, took the tiller and the mainsail sheet in his hand. He raised his free hand in farewell to his ship and Meg followed suit. The boat scudded towards the mouth of the Gironde.
Meg stepped carefully to the stern and sat on the bench that ran along the side, well away from Cosimo at the tiller. It was a very different matter to be under sail in this little boat than on the Mary Rose, but Cosimo was clearly enjoying himself. He had his head thrown back, watching the movement of the sail much as he did on the ship, but here the smallest movement of the tiller seemed all that was necessary to correct a setting.
“I don’t know anything about sailing,” she said softly, aware of the silence around them.
“You don’t need to,” he returned, shooting her a quick smile. “All you need to know is how to keep the Rosa’s captain happy in his work.”
Meg grinned. “I think I can do that. So she’s called the Rosa?”
“Appropriate enough for a tender to the Mary Rose. Why don’t you go into the cabin and familiarize yourself with the stores? I’m afraid you are going to be responsible for dealing with food and suchlike. At least while I have the tiller.”
Meg did as he asked, taking the two steps down to the low entrance to the housing. She had to crouch as she went in and could barely stand upright once inside. Cosimo would be bent double. She looked around. It was hard to see in the darkness. She poked her head out. “Can I light a lamp?” she whispered.
“There’s a lantern on the table. It’s ready to be lit. Flint and tinder in a drawer beneath. But keep the light low.”
Meg found the table by bruising her hip on a sharp corner. She felt for the drawer, found what she was looking for, and fumbled for the lantern. The soft glow of lamplight showed her a cramped space with a narrow bunk set into the bulkhead. Narrower than the one in the captain’s cabin on the Mary Rose, so obviously sleeping would be in shifts. But then, sleeping was not the object of this exercise.
Neatly stacked packages filled the bow space. She examined them and found coffee, tea, cheese, half a ham, and a loaf of bread. They could hardly survive on that all the way to Toulouse. So presumably they’d stop to take on supplies. Further exploration revealed a keg of water, a kettle, a pan, and a skillet.
She ducked back into the open air. “How do we heat water?”
“There should be a sack of charcoal and a brazier,” Cosimo said. “But we’ll do no cooking tonight. You should find cognac and wine in one of the cupboards beneath the bunk. Bring me wine and some bread and cheese.”
“Right away, Captain,” she said with a smart salute. “May I bring some for myself? Or must the cabin boy eat after his captain?” She raised a provocative eyebrow.
“Don’t tempt me, Meg,” he said. “I can’t leave the tiller if we’re to make Bordeaux by morning.”
Meg clambered down into the cabin and put together a plate of bread, cheese, and ham. She found the flask of wine and brought the results of her foraging back on deck. “Not very elegant, I’m afraid.”
“It’ll do fine. You go and get some sleep now.”
“I’m not in the least sleepy and I would like to share your picnic,” Meg stated. “I can’t sleep to order, Cosimo.”
“You’ll learn,” he said carelessly. “You’ll learn to take every opportunity you’re given. But you’ll be your own teacher.” He reached for the flask and tipped it to his lips.
Meg frowned into the darkness. He had changed a little, but she couldn’t put her finger on quite how. There was something different about his posture, something contained about his manner, as if he was operating in a private world. Perhaps that was necessary when a spy started work in enemy territory. It interested her and she wasn’t foolish enough to take exception.
She accepted the flask as he offered it to her, and broke bread, layered it with ham and cheese, and passed it to him. He accepted it with a nod of thanks and the boat sailed on through the night under a gentle breeze. The water on the river was much quieter than the open sea, although at this point it was wide enough that the banks were hard to distinguish. Meg had studied the charts and knew that that would change as they drew closer to Bordeaux.
There
was something hypnotic about the smooth slide across the dark water, the silence broken only by the scream of a gull, the cry of a curlew. Meg realized that a big ship on the sea was a very noisy place even at dead of night. She hadn’t noticed before. She ate bread and cheese and absorbed the peace until she felt her eyelids drooping.
“Perhaps I will try to sleep,” she murmured.
Cosimo chuckled. He knew what try meant. “A wise move.”
She laughed a little. “Very well, Captain Cosimo, as always you know best.” She stood up, stretching. “Are you sure you don’t need me . . . to keep you company at least?”
“I do need you, love, but not at the moment,” he returned. “Kiss me and go.”
She leaned down and kissed him lightly on the lips, tasting salt and wine. “Call me if you need me. I shan’t sleep long.”
“No,” he agreed. “I’m sure you won’t.” Meg didn’t see his flickering smile.
Cosimo sailed and Meg slept until the dawn light showed and the sky took on an orange tint. They were close to where the Gironde split, with the Dordogne going off to the left and the Garonne to the right straight into Bordeaux. He’d debated which of the two rivers to take. The Dordogne was less traveled but the Garonne would bring them closer to their destination. In the end he’d decided to take the riskier route. If necessary, they would abandon Rosa earlier and take to the roads in another disguise.
He searched for a quiet backwater where they could wait until nightfall. He could get some sleep and then catch a few fish, make a little love, have supper, and start off again as soon as darkness fell and the local river traffic ceased. They would slip past Bordeaux beneath the lookouts on the walls and by dawn would once more be looking for another backwater, but with the fortress city well behind them.
He took a narrow reed-lined stream that the little sailing boat could navigate without difficulty, lowered the sail, and dropped the anchor. He stood and stretched, aware of the stiffness in his shoulders after the hours of maintaining the same position. He relieved himself over the stern and then ducked beneath the housing.